


A Better Fate than Wisdom

by Brigdh



Category: Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Community: yaoi_challenge, First Time, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've never needed anyone as much as I need Tsuzuki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Better Fate than Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Small ones for the Kyoto Arc  
> Author's Notes: I ran out of time on this, and so it hasn't been beta'd or worked on for nearly as long as it should have been. And I don't think I met the prompt very well. So not my best work. I apologize.
> 
> Prompt: Hisoka comforting Tsuzuki through another bout of insecurity/guilt. Maybe work related. Hisoka laying him out, surrounding him, taking his time loving him, slow and thorough, lots of kissing and refusing to take no for an answer when Tsuzuki gets a little uncomfortable with the whole thing but needing it. Hisoka taking care of him, loving him.

I shouldn't need anyone as much as I need Tsuzuki. Anything you need can be taken away, and then you're all the weaker for having counted on it. I could do without another disadvantage; it's not like the universe has been stacked in my favor any time recently. There's a lot of things I want to be- strong, powerful. Independent. I'm not. I cling to him like a child just because he's shown me some little bit of kindness. It's pathetic and embarrassing. I can't stop doing it. I want him as much as I've ever wanted anything, and the thought of losing him terrifies me; my nightmares are as likely to feature black flames as cherry-blossom petals anymore.

Some nights he comes over because he's feeling lonely or bored or can't sleep. He's too loud and flippant, all grins and jokes and inane flirting, which means he's covering something up. Or maybe not. I can't tell with him; Tsuzuki flings himself into his happiness. I'm not sure even he knows if it's not real. He falls asleep here sometimes. I let him stay on the couch.

I don't know why he makes these visits. He won't say, and I don't like to admit that having him here makes me nervous. I can't tell what he expects of me. Maybe I was supposed to pick up some hint from his behavior and offer him something he's too polite to ask for. Not likely. Tsuzuki isn't too polite for anything.

He followed me tonight straight from the office, talking the entire time. I barely listened to his babbling; I don't think _he_ bothered to listen to it. It didn't matter because the entire point was to keep talking so fast that I didn't have a chance of getting in a single word, because then I couldn't tell him to leave. Not that I would have, but- I might have. If he'd been silent. If I'd started to worry about what he wanted. But he managed to fill the entire walk here and so I never got a chance. He stood on the doorstep talking until I invited him in, and then he insisted on cooking me dinner. We had to throw away his attempt, which I'd known would happen even before he started stir-frying the cheese, and ordered delivery. He stayed to help clean up. He stayed after every dish and pot in the house was washed and dried and stored. He's still here after another hour of sitting at the bare kitchen table.

I make tea to have something to do. Tsuzuki puts too much honey in his, and I can taste the warm, thick sugar on the steam. He drinks it so quickly it burns his mouth, but even that doesn't quiet him. He talks about something that I don't bother to hear and plays with the empty cup. I watch his long fingers spin it on edge and then catch it, slipping inside on a last drop of liquid. His eyes jump around the room, touching me and moving away to the ceiling, the walls, the sink, the cabinets, and dropping down to the tabletop and his hands. He smiles at it all. He can't stay still for even a moment, like a child, like some unfunny clown come to disturb my home and my night and my whole life. I think about grabbing his hands and forcing him to be still, holding him in place. I think about doing something to close his mouth and make him look only at me.

I stop before it's a real idea. There's no point in imagining things I can't have, and I know they'd only be disappointing. I don't like being touched. I've learned that I don't enjoy it, even if everyone else in the world seems to take some great pleasure in being fondled. I don't want Tsuzuki's surprise or his eyes on me, warm with affection. Why would I? I'd have to be sick to want- it doesn't matter. It won't happen. I ask him if he wants some more tea. I must have interrupted him in the middle of a sentence because he looks startled and has to consider the question before he answers.

He was sketching something with fingertips on the table's surface and his face was tilted down to study it, but when he looks up to reply he's smiling cheerfully. He's beautiful, but I already knew that. Everyone who sees Tsuzuki knows that, and I have to deal with all of their good looks-inspired fantasies. I stopped noticing it for myself after he got drunk and drooled on me the first time. No one is pretty when they're hung-over.

So I don't know what it is that makes me want him. He smiles at me like I'm something new and wonderful, and he sits in my kitchen for hours when I can barely make conversation, and he gets himself ripped to shreds trying to protect me no matter how many times I tell him that I don't need it. I want him beyond reason, so sharply that my breath snags on it like a sudden pain. I ignore whatever he says about the tea and put my hand on his. His emotions sing clearer, like a radio tuning in to the right station and the static vanishes. Or maybe his feelings are actually stronger now, if I've done something right by reaching out. He glances at me curiously but doesn't say anything, and eventually shifts and laces his fingers through mine. I have to focus to separate myself from him; it's hard to remember the distinction between us when everything seems close and blurry. At first I want to both pull away and lean forward, but the feeling is gone before I can decide if it's actually mine.

I've never touched Tsuzuki for this long before. No, that's not true. We touch all the time, but usually there's too many other things going on to notice. Right now no one is bleeding or crying, and nothing's on fire, and it seems like a very long time with nothing to think about except the way his skin feels against my palm. I remind myself that I don't want to pull away; that he wouldn't stop me if I tried. Tsuzuki's hand is larger than mine is, and his knuckles make bony knobs between my fingers, and one of his nails has a jagged edge in the corner where he must've bitten it. If I concentrate, I can almost feel his heartbeat within my grip.

I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't this. All the stupid little physical details don't add up to anything grand or romantic, and I don't like feeling his pulse. You shouldn't be able to hear it as someone else's heart pumps blood through their body; it's disturbing. And his pulse is slower than mine, which makes my stomach hurt as if my body can't decide which rhythm it's supposed to be following. I thought if I could take that first step and prove to myself that I could touch someone, everything else would fall into place, and then I'd know what to do. For once, I'd be certain of what I actually wanted, not what I thought I might want just because I'd never had it. But I only feel awkward, and I don't have anything more intelligent to say than I did before, and my hand is sweaty.

I pull away and stand up, pretending to need more water. Tsuzuki sighs behind me and wonders if he should have said something, but when I turn around he only lifts his cup for a second serving. "Why are you here?" I snap.

His eyes go still while he thinks furiously: he's going to lie to me. I interrupt him before he can get out more than a few words. "Stop it. Go home if you just want tea, Tsuzuki."

He nods silently and stands up, wandering slowly out of the room in a way that means he's leaving, if reluctantly. Damn. I didn't mean- but let him go, if he won't tell me what's going on. I'm not his babysitter.

He leaves his cup on the table, a sticky ring marking where he'd set the honey-jar lid wrong side down. He's such a mess. I move to the kitchen doorway and watch him gather his coat and suit jacket. He keeps looking around as if he might have brought something and forgot it. He doesn't glance towards me; maybe he can't think of a better way to stretch out his departure. He kneels by the door to slip on his shoes and tells the carpet, "I had a bad dream."

I wait for him to continue, but he's finally silent. He holds an empty shoe and waits for me to say something, to give him some indication of whether to stay or go. I'm no good at this; I don't know why he keeps coming to me when he needs comfort. "Yeah?"

He stands and shrugs, a foolish smile pasted on his face to cover up everything he's decided not to reveal. "Can I stay for just a little longer?"

"I don't care," I mutter. He takes it as permission and drops the coat and jacket in a pile over the shoes. He comes back towards the kitchen, but I don't move out of his way. I hate it when he pretends that everything is fine. "When did you have the dream?"

"Last night." He puts his hands in his pockets. He took his tie off hours ago and stuffed it somewhere, and now his collar hangs open, the first few buttons undone.

"You're still upset?"

"It was a bad dream," he says evasively. I should have noticed earlier. I'm not much of an empath if I can't tell when my own partner is feeling depressed. I ask him to tell me about the dream, though I'm not sure I want to know. "It's not important," he says, and tries to move by me.

I shift to block him. "Tell me."

He backs up a few steps. I haven't switched on the lamp, and his face is lit dimly by the light from the kitchen, reflecting in his eyes like mirrors. "Hisoka..."

"I want to know. You can't say you trust me if you won't even tell me about a dream." This can't be the appropriate way to deal with a depressed person, but I don't know of anything better and I can't stand to let him smile when he's suffering. I'll get him to admit to it if I have the beat the truth out of him, and then I'll... I don't know. I can't fix him. And then I'll hold his hand while he bleeds, probably.

He closes his eyes and sighs. "I was on trial. They were going to decide if I deserved to keep living, and if I didn't, I'd die and it'd be like I'd never lived at all. Because if I hadn't done enough good to live, then it'd be better if I hadn't been born. Right? Everyone was there. People who died decades ago, and people whose names I don't even remember, and everyone, and they were the witnesses. They got to make speeches about me, and if I'd helped them or hurt them."

"You haven't hurt anyone," I protest automatically. He doesn't acknowledge it.

"It took a long time. A really long time. You were the last one, Hisoka, and I thought-" he looks at me for the briefest second, then raises his eyes to the ceiling and smiles ruefully. "I thought you'd say something nice. I was expecting you to say something like you did when I called Touda. You know, that I should live for you, and you didn't care about any of the rest, you just want me to stay."

I'm silent. I want to tell him that I meant it, but it seems wrong to talk about what happened so calmly. I can't bring myself to say it again, as if repeating it now and here, in a still, dark hall, would dull its meaning. "Did I?"

"No." He touches his face and- oh. He's crying. He does that so often that it must make him feel better, though it doesn't seem that way. He just hurts.

I pull his hands away and scrub at his tears with a clenched fist. "It was a dream. It wasn't real."

"I know," he says. He leans into my touch on his face, turning his head into my hand. I pretend not to notice. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be stupid. There's nothing to be sorry for."

He lifts his hands quickly and touches my face with his fingertips, so softly I almost don't realize he's done it. He tilts his head into mine, our foreheads thumping, and his eyes are swollen and red and but it just makes the violet look more intense. I freeze, and his breath is warm against my mouth. "There is," he insists. "You had so much to say, and it was all true. There wasn't anything I could do to make you stay."

"That wasn't me. I... don't be stupid." I take my hand off his cheek, because it's become too obvious that I'm only wiping away the tears as an excuse to touch him. I don't want to pull away though, so I grab his collar, almost brushing the bare skin of his neck. He doesn't move. He's content to come so close but not any closer, as if as long as he doesn't actually kiss me, he can keep us both convinced that he doesn't want to. I'm sick of ambiguity and half-denials; I'll try for what I want. I lean up and press my lips against his.

He draws back, leaning out of reach. "No, Hisoka. Don't."

I step away from him and cross my arms over my chest. "Why not?" I demand, and even to my own ears I sound like a spoiled brat. I don't understand, but I don't care. I'm not hurt.

"Because a kiss is too much and I'm not worth it. I know what it means to you; you don't even let people touch you." He shakes his head. "Don't do this for me. It was only a nightmare."

"It's my choice to offer it." I move against him and he pulls away again, starting to say my name, but I hold him still and kiss him. He breaks away slowly and I manage to kiss him another time.

He shoves me back finally, hands hard on my shoulders. "Stop it."

I won't let him quit now. It's his fault; he started this when he bought me gooey desserts I wouldn't eat and touched me like there wasn't any reason not to and took my safety more seriously than his own. I press against his hands and shout at him, "Don't you want to?"

"Yes!" His eyelashes are still wet, and it makes him look pleading and desperate. He whispers frantically to me, "That's why you have to stop. I don't trust myself. I can't keep saying no."

"That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard." It isn't; he says stupider things all the time. But nothing lately has been as frustrating and painful. I push past his hands to put my arms around his neck and hold on to him. "I want you. I want this. Please. I have to know if I can." He closes his arms around me in a loose embrace, flickering between longing and shame. He needs immeasurably. I want to be strong enough to earn his trust; I want him to be at peace, I want to be happy. No one has ever depended on me for as much as he does. If I could, I'd protect him from everything, even dreams. The world he kills himself for doesn't deserve him. He rests his face on my head so that all I can see is his shoulder and neck and a tiny sliver of the hallway wall. I want him to smile and laugh like it doesn't matter who's listening; I want him as he is, hair messy and face streaked and emotions a swirled tangle.

I curl against him a little tighter, and he doesn't stop me. We kiss. And then again. And then he opens his mouth and gets spit all over my lips. I jerk away and wipe it off. "I didn't-"

"I just-" he says at the same time. We both stop talking, and he chuckles embarrassedly. I won't look at him; I don't know how to do even this the right way. How stupid could I be? "It's okay," Tsuzuki says. He puts his thumb on my bottom lip and tugs it down softly. I almost tell him to stop treating me like I'm an imbecile, but he's so earnest and happy that I let my mouth open. "Like that," he breathes just before he kisses me.

I think it's awkward. I don't have much to compare it to, but I know I can't be any good because I can't relax enough to decide what I should be doing. Tsuzuki is delighted though, and his pleasure and enjoyment tickle like soda bubbles. I shiver; they're tingling and bursting through me, and it seems like we're touching everywhere. I can still feel his hands on my skin after he's moved them. I can't hold all these emotions: his multiply mine and they expand until I'm drowning in them, and everything I can see and hear and taste is desire. I think I must spill them back, somehow, into Tsuzuki. He holds me so tight against him that I shake when his hands tremble. He yanks the neck of my shirt loose to kiss my throat and collarbones.

"Tell me to stop," he whispers.

"No." I don't want to stop. I don't ever want to stop. I'm afraid I'd never feel this again, and life before Tsuzuki was hollow and faded and lonely. I can't lose him after I've spent so long with nothing. Even the ache as this feeling builds feels good. I can't breathe normally and I think I might burst from all our emotions; my chest seems tight and I'm hard already. That has to be too soon. I try to shift away so that Tsuzuki doesn't feel it.

He thinks I'm pulling away from him, though, and tries to follow, bumping our hips together. He grins foolishly at me, and I'm pretty sure I'm turning dark red. There is no blood left in my brain. "We should sit down," he says.

"Yeah." He takes my hand to pull me into the living room, and I'm still blushing a little even though there's no one here to see us. We sit on the couch, but our legs keep tangling up when we face each other. I can't decide where to put my hands. I sigh in frustration and Tsuzuki frowns like he thinks I'm mad at him.

He climbs behind me, pulling me nearly into his lap. I lie back against him and find that my head just fits on his shoulder. He smiles and kisses me, and it's the perfect angle. "Better?"

I nod, wriggling back into him and find that he's hard too. His mouth opens on a silent cry as I move against him and I moan for him, squeezing my eyes shut. We can't hold still then. I don't know if it's him or me who starts it, but we both whimper and rock together. Everything we feel is focused on that one spot of contact, and it pulls on me like gravity. Coming closer feels like growing heavier and more solid, and I've never been so aware of my body, the way it fits around a single desire. My pulse pounds in my ears and erection; Tsuzuki pants against my cheek.

He puts his hand between my legs. "Is this alright?"

"Yes," I say, and barely manage to stop myself before I beg him for more. My hips buck up into his touch of their own volition; my body seems to be barely under my control. It would be frightening if I could think about it, but I don't want to panic. Focus on Tsuzuki instead: he's not afraid at all. He licks his lips and I taste tea and sweat, I feel rough denim on my fingertips. He unzips my jeans and slides his hand inside, and when he touches me I'm very thankful we're still wearing clothes. I don't think I could handle so much contact without the help of that barrier. I roll my head back, blindly seeking him, and he presses his face to mine. We move. His fingers are on me on him on me; there's no separation between us. We're lost inside each other; we exist only at the places where we touch. Someone gasps, someone presses forward, someone arches his back and falls. It feels like everything, like something too big and bright to have a shape.

I breathe out. So does he, a moment later. As simply as that we're out of sync again, and he's hot and sweaty against me, and very content. I cough to clear my throat. "Tsuzuki?"

He makes a questioning noise.

"You should stay here tonight." I say it in a rush, before embarrassment makes me stop.

I can feel it as he smiles against my shoulder, and his happiness washes over me like dawn sunlight. It's a weakness, and there'll be consequences eventually. I don't care.


End file.
